


Bentley vs The South Downs

by Zeckarin



Series: And they were roomates... (but there were two beds) [52]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angry Bentley, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), But he likes gardening, Crowley and plants have a difficult relationship, Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Distressed Bentley, Dominatrix, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, Misunderstandings, Moving to the Countryside, Queerplatonic Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sentient Bentley (Good Omens), Sentient Bookshop (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Tea, Yes. This is not an error in tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:42:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29685546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeckarin/pseuds/Zeckarin
Summary: Aziraphale and Madam Tracy have shared a body for a few hours and helped adverting Armageddon together. They also both like tea, cakes, and gossips. It tends to create powerful bounds.Crowley suddenly realises that his friend may have unspoken wishes, and decides to help.South Downs ensues.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Aziraphale & The Bentley (Good Omens), The Bentley & Crowley (Good Omens), the bentley and the bookshop
Series: And they were roomates... (but there were two beds) [52]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1523585
Comments: 42
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zeckarin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeckarin/gifts).



> Whatever the tags are saying, DON'T BELIEVE THEM!
> 
> This is my gift to me, from me, for my birthday which is TODAY!!  
> And it's a big one!
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY ME! (awww thank you, me!)
> 
> (okay I pressed "post" AFTER MIDNIGHT and it still says "published on the 24th", so I want you all to know this fic LIES! It's been posted on the 25th!)
> 
> Chapter 2 needs to be posted today too, of course.

It was the fourth wednesday of the month, and on the fourth wednesday, Madam Tracy headed back to London to have some fun and meet old friends. As always, she stopped by the bookshop for afternoon tea, and as always a dreadful storm was raging outside.

Glaring at the door from the other side of the street, Sargent Shadwell fumed, drenched by the heavy rain. He could have taken shelter in his and Mrs Potts’* car, or in the pub at the corner, but it would mean letting Mr. Crowley, that flash bastard, win, and that was out of the question.

*Madam Tracy had calmly, but very firmly refused to change names at the wedding, and Mr. Shadwell was feeling way too emotional to argue about it until four days later.

“So how is respectable life treating you, my dear Madam?” asked Aziraphale, adding a touch of milk to Madam Tracy’s tea before handing her her cup.

“Oh, very well, luv. I can’t complain.”

“Still not missing London and work too much, then?”

Madam Tracy chuckled, swatting his arm. “Oh, you _know_ work was mostly putting cabbages to cook and endure the same old questions asked by the same old people. They didn’t even want to hear _real_ answers. It was kind of boring in the end. No, I don’t miss it. I have plenty to occupy myself with in the village without getting back to my psychic years.”

Aziraphale nodded, took a sip of tea, then frowned slightly. “But it was not your only work, was it? Do you not miss being a dominatrix?”

To his left, Crowley spat his coffee and started to cough. Aziraphale and Tracy turned to him. “I think you may have broken Mr. Crowley,” commented Madam Tracy.

The angel rolled his eyes. “Crowley still has this ridiculous notion that I do not know anything about intercourse. I know what a dominatrix is, Crowley!”

“ _Please_ , stop saying that word, angel,” managed Crowley between two bouts of coughing. “You shouldn’t even _know_ it!”

“But he _does_!” exclaimed Tracy, always helpful. “I was sharing his thoughts for a while, and I can assure you Mr. Aziraphale knows about things I would never have figured out myself!”

“Oh, you know,” demurred the angel, “after six thousand years, it is quite difficult not to have seen it all. It is the jokes and allusions I do not understand. Why are humans spending so much time thinking about it?” he asked earnestly.

Tracy offered him a wicked smile. “I couldn’t say, luv, I never spent much time _thinking_ about it.” She took a sip of tea, eyeing Crowley, and waited for him to get back to his drink before adding: “I prefer to use my free time _doing_ it.”

This time the demon choked, and Aziraphale patted his back. “Really, dear, you should be more careful with your drink!”

He turned back to Madam Tracy. “So, you do not miss it? I have heard disciplining a willing partner can be quite pleasurable for some humans, and I was worried you would miss it. I certainly would miss food, were I to renounce it.”

Tracy smiled brightly. “Oh, this is such a nice thought, dear! No, do not worry, I have Mr. S for that.”

Crowley decided to stop drinking. The risk of discorporating was too high. Maybe now was the good moment to get to the window and watch Shadwell get soaked. It was always a soothing sight. But he would have to _get up_ for that. waste of energy, that. Shadwel didn’t deserve it.

He had closed his eyes, head falling back to the couch’s back, and was considering a nap, when he noticed a change in his friend’s voice.

“... I had a cottage at some point too, in the ninth century, in Manchuria. I certainly see the appeal of country life. It has been quite a while since I have enjoyed it, but Crowley had a small house in France about four hundred years ago. Such a _beautiful_ garden!”

The angel sounded _wistful_. Crowley kept his eyes closed.

“Mr. S loves his garden too. The poor dear isn’t very good at it, but he’s doing his best. He has _beautiful_ roses, mind you”

“Ooooh, _roses_!” chirped the angel in delight. “I love roses so much! I wish--"

Crowley repressed a frown as his friend’s voice stopped abruptly. Tracy immediately started to talk about the latest gossip in her small village, and the discussion changed course.

The demon let the voices fade in the distance, lost in his musings.

Aziraphale loved the countryside just as much as he enjoyed the hustle of the big city. London had hundreds of gifted chefs providing delicious and original food, as well as the anonymity of the crowd, two of Aziraphale’s most comforting things.

But rural life offered silence and loneliness when needed, and if small towns were always prone to gossip and meddling in others’ lives, you could also find there a beautiful sense of cooperation and assistance when times were hard.

Aziraphale missed nature. The angel had been stationed in London for so long (with the usual assignment here and there) that Crowley had sort of forgotten how much his friend loved trees and grass.

This was all Tracy’s fault, of course. Talking about her stupid garden, her stupid bookclub, and her stupid neighour’ pregnancy (“still no baby, and she was due _six days ago_ , luv!”). 

Now the angel wanted to visit.

Of course, he would never say it, and Tracy wouldn’t offer, because they both knew Crowley would freak the Heaven out at the thought of letting Shadwell anywhere near Aziraphale.

Deep down, Crowley knew Shadwell wasn’t that much of a threat. Aziraphale had been in more danger so many times through the ages, and didn’t need rescuing for most of them. But the old witchfinder was responsible for the demon’s worst memory, and even today, a year and a half later, Crowley still had nightmares about that freaking fire.

No way he would let Aziraphale share the man’s roof, even for a short visit.

Tracy was his friend, though. A nice lady, very funny and entertaining at that. And she’d lent her body when the angel needed one. That was kind of a huge debt in Crowley’s book.

She deserved to show off her house to Aziraphale. To have him meet her new friends, and team up with her on trivia night at the pub to finally teach Donna Smith and her team a lesson.

Crowley yawned, and reached out for his coffee mug. Not the moment to sleep. He had to plan a ride to the South Downs for a visit.

No staying at Tracy’s, though. Out of the question. He needed to buy a cottage.

With a big garden. And roses. _Perfect roses_. Good enough to make Shadwell’s look hideous.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bentley accompanies her demon to some cottage-shopping.  
> Our favourite car is NOT happy with this development.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok this day was great and entertaining and all that, but I ended up with much less free time than expected.  
> So here is a ridiculous chapter...  
> Chapter 2 of 5+1 is almost finished, but not ready to post (not in the two minutes I have left at least)  
> and second half of THIS chapter is VERY reluctant to get written right (glares at Bookshop)  
> So know that they are both going to be posted soon. Just need to post something, anything, on the 25th :D

Bentley started to worry on Friday, when Father drove her to the coast. The demon did a lot of mumbling under his breath and seemed to take great care to drive around a small village, before stopping on the side of the road to call someone on his phone and ask them to meet him.

Then Father smoked for a while, leaning against her hood, and Bentley took the opportunity to observe sheep mating rituals closely. It apparently looked like any other species’ mating rituals. Bentley felt relieved to know she belonged to a species evolved enough to be able to avoid the process altogether.

Using this technique to make new cars would be a _nightmare_ just to get rid of the scratches.

After a long time, a human stopped her inferior car near Bentley, and Father and she had a chat. The sheep had become boring a while ago, so she listened to Father intently.

“I want it to be exactly three miles from the centre of town, and away from main roads. It has to have a garden. Bookshelves are a plus. Got something?”

The woman smiled sweetly. “I am certain I can find several nice little cottages that could fit your search, Mr. Crowley. I will make inquiries and get back to you next week.”

“No, not next week,” cut Father with a derisive snort, “I want to visit some today.”

The woman looked shocked. “Sir, I cannot do that at the drop of a hat. I need to get the keys, and check with the--”

“Never-mind,” said Father, “I’ll find someone else. I don’t have a lot of time for all that. Need to head back in two hours. Dinner reservations.”

“Two hours?” squealed the woman, before obviously gathering herself. “I mean… I am sure I can make some calls. I… give me five minutes?”

She was literally begging now, thought Bentley smugly. Father always was very good at choosing the best humans when he wanted something done. The best humans were the ones easily tempted. Most of the time, the temptation in question was only money.

 _Money_ . Humans were no fun at all. Temptation was an art, and Father was a true master that shouldn’t have to use his skills on such dull targets. Why was it so easy to tempt with _money_? It was so much more interesting to use old books, or crepes, or the right vintage of wine.

The woman was coming back already, and sent father a bright, phony smile. “I have two cottages that meet your conditions. We can visit them now, sir, if you would be amenable.”

Father sent a fake smile of his own and gestured at the woman’s car. “Lead the way, then.”

Bentley followed the woman’s vehicle, yawning inwardly at the snail’s pace, and parked in front of a little white-washed house with a baby blue picket fence. Father glared at the fence, but sauntered towards the house and entered it with the woman.

Four minutes later, they were coming back. Father fished (conjured) his chequebook from inside his jacket. “It’s good. I’ll take it.”

Again, the woman gaped. “Don’t you want… to see the other one?”

Father frowned. “Why would I? This one will do the deed. It looks clean enough and the kitchen’s brand new. The roses aren’t too lacking. That will do. We’ll come tomorrow.”

“Mr. Crowley!” cried the woman, “you can not move in so fast! There is paperwork, and signatures, and--”

“I’ll triple the price,” said father, handing her a cheque. “Get a wiggle on with the papers and send them to me. I don’t care how you do it, but I want to have the keys tomorrow morning at the latest.”

The woman looked at the cheque in disbelief. “Sir, this… this is not how it works. I think I can hurry the process, but tomorrow is...”

Father sighed impatiently and snatched the cheque back, ripping it in two in front of the devastated realtor. “Okay, I’ll double that. Here.”

He hurriedly scribbled another bit of paper and shoved it into her hands. “Last offer. I only want to hear a “yes” or I’m out of it. So, tomorrow. Can you do it?”

The human looked up from the cheque, her hands tightening on it greedily. “Yes, I can.”

“Good,” said Father, slithering away. “I don’t want to hear anything about it, make whatever decisions need to be made. Just send me the papers to sign. Keys tomorrow morning, remember.”

Bentley sent a last look at the little white house and its thatched roof.

 _Moving in?_ What was happening here?

Who needed to move in? Certainly not Father. Father belonged in London, and in the _bookshop_. Right?

_Right?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I am not going to bed before taming that damned Bookshop's POV!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bookshop loves to see his Principality happy.  
> And the angel's best friend has news that will make Aziraphale very happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had SUCH A HARD TIME writing Bookshop's POV!!!  
> I don't know if it's old age, but these last 3 days have been bad for writing. Hopefully, the muse is back.

Bookshop wasn’t the kind to ask questions. He never understood why humans always questioned everything without even stopping to search for answers. Wanting knowledge was, of course, _good_ , but most of the strange creatures didn’t even take the time to look around for it.

Which was ridiculous, because books had _all_ the answers, if one only knew where to find them. Which was _not_ anywhere near Bookshop. His books were there only for Angel’s pleasure. The only other person Bookshop allowed to touch them was My Dear, who was Angel’s family, and was very protective of Bookshop’s treasures.

The old building perfectly understood Angel’s reluctance to part with his precious tomes. Most humans didn’t deserve to take one of their volumes away. They wouldn’t love them as they deserved. They wouldn’t wear _gloves_.

Yes, he knew a book or two that would answer most of the customers’ questions (being able to read minds was sometimes very useful). He had a book for _every_ situation. Sometimes, but rarely, Angel and Bookshop decided to provide answers, for the ones deserving, or in dire need, of it.

“ _Will anyone ever love me?”_ could be easily answered with some Austen (but _not_ a first edition), where the reader, if attentive, would understand that _everyone_ deserved to be loved, and should start directing the sentiment at themselves first and foremost. 

“ _What kind of gift will be good enough to get that bookish girl into bed?”_ Could be answered with a lot of volumes, as long as they were heavy enough and situated on the higher shelves. Bookshop took a lot of satisfaction offering this sort of answer.

“ _I don’t think I can go through this any longer,”_ from an elementary schooler required ‘A Little Princess’ (this time it _had_ been a first edition, but there wasn’t another tome on hand), a cup of hot cocoa, with marshmallows obviously, and an angelic hug*. 

“ _Is that a fucking SNAKE?”_ Didn’t even need a book to be answered. My Dear always answered that one himself, and that was very nice of him, since it usually meant the customer would never be willing to come back (this was Bookshop’s favourite kind of customers).

*Angel was not good at touching people, but it wasn’t the same when people needed a _lifeline_ hug.

Bookshops had all the answers hidden somewhere within his walls, but didn’t care for questions very much. He was content with things as they were, as long as Angel was happy. If Angel was sad, or hurt, then a question needed to be answered, usually “ _Where is My Dear? How can I get him here really quickly?”_ and the answer was usually _Bentley_. Had been for the last eighty years.

At the moment, Angel was humming under his breath and rummaging through some boxes in the back room, and Bookshop was satisfied.

Bentley parked across two parking spaces, as was her habit, and My Dear sauntered to the door. Bookshop unlocked it and sent a welcoming nudge in the demon’s direction.

“Aziraphale?”

“In the back, dear!”

My Dear stopped at the back room’s door and snatched his sunglasses off, folding them as he looked at the mess Angel had made of the room. Bookshop observed with great interest.

“... What on Earth are you doing, angel?”

Angel didn’t even look up. “Oh, I was thinking about my days at the gentlemen’s club. We had some sort of a book club there, you know. Madam Tracy reminded me of it. I know I still have my notes somewhere…”

“Azssssiraphale… did this _book club_ included _Oscar bloody Wilde_?”

Angel rolled his eyes. “Of course it did. Who else would have created it in the first place? I know it must be somewhere in this box--OH! My old _thumb tips_!” exclaimed the Principality, brandishing the magic items like it was the Holy Grail. “I knew I still had them somewhere! Crowley, dear, I have to show you that trick with the--”

The demon crossed his arms over his chest. “No.”

“Crowley! You did not let me finish my sentence!” Protested Angel.

My Dear glared. “Still no. Nope, aua, niet, non, ot teh, nein, iie, nee, ah mo--”

“ _All right_ , I think you made your position clear.” Angel put the thumb tips down daintily, and got back to his box with a pout.

Bookshop felt content. His Principality was safe and sound, and having a good time being mad at their demon. The mouse was doing mice things*, careful to stay away from the books, and the cup of tea was not entirely cold yet.

* Bookshop had taught Algernon not to touch first editions. They had an understanding.

For the sixth time in the last two hours, Bookshop heated the beverage. He hoped Aziraphale would drink it soon, before it became bad.

Parked outside, Bentley sent him a nudge. Bookshop slowly turned his focus to his young friend. Bentley had been a very happy surprise, and the old building cared for the brave, good-hearted car very much.

Strangely, the usually happy girl seemed devastated. Bookshop sent her a wave of concerned affection, asking for the cause of her turmoil.

Bentley hesitated for a long time, and in the end chose not to answer. Bookshop was not the kind of building to push for confidence. He extended a soothing ethereal blanket over the car in the approximation of a hug, and got back to listening to his two favourite immortals.

“... are you angry?”

“Angry? Why would I be angry?” answered Angel angrily. “You have a right to hate magic, it is perfectly understandable.”

My Dear made a face. “Never said I _hated_ magic…”

Angel huffed. “Oh, good. So you just hate _my_ magic acts. Good to know.”

“I don’t hate them, they’re just embarrassing. Because you’re very, _very_ bad at it, angel.”

Angel pressed his lips together firmly. “I see.”

“I mean, _really_ bad,” continued My Dear, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning against the wall.

“All right then," said Angel, and Bookshop could sense that he was irritated but also a little amused.

“Awful, even. I’m pretty sure the word _atrocious_ could be used in this instance.”

“I think you made your point clear, Crowley.”

“Good. Now, can you stop searching for that bloody notebook and listen to me? I have news.”

Angel looked around at the few boxes still unopened and sighed. “Oh, but I transcribed a story there that Oscar never got published. I need to find it.”

“Angel. Aziraphale. You have absolute memory, you don’t need the blasted notebook to remember what certainly is second-rated prose at best,” snapped My Dear.

“Really, dear. Oscar was a lot of things, but second-rate writer never was one of them.”

The demon put his glasses back on with a frown. “I stand by my statement. He wasn’t that great.”

Had Bookshop been able to chuckle, he would have. It was always funny to see My Dear get all flustered and jealous over Oscar Wilde. The human writer had been here a few times. He was interesting, and Angel had loved to discuss with him, but they hadn’t been _close_. Angel was very careful not to get too close to mortals*.

*Although, lately, he was making quite a lot of exceptions, and Bookshop was a little worried over it.

Angel finally decided to abandon his research and stood up, brushing his knees, before patting My Dear’s arm. “Stop sulking, dear, this is unbecoming.”

The demon pouted. “If I watch your stupid magic act, will you admit he wasn’t such a _great_ friend?”

“Friend? We were talking about _writing_ , dear boy. Oscar cannot even compare to you in the friendship department. I do not need you enduring my magic to admit it.”

My Dear nodded, mollified. “...kay. I guess _one_ act can’t kill me.”

Angel gasped. “ _Really?_ ”

“Yeah, yeah, really,” grumbled My Dear. “A _short_ one.”

“Of course! I will gather my things this instant! Oh, will you paint my mustache on?”

“You don’t _need_ \--right, right, stop making that face, I’ll draw the bloody mustache.”

“ _Thank you_ , Crowley!”

“Shadduuuup!”

The magic act was atrocious, and Bookshop watched it fondly. My Dear was trying very hard to behave and only needed to have a book dropped over his head once. All in all, it was a very good evening, even if Bentley was still brooding. Angel ordered some food, and Bookshop let in the sushi delivery person, who didn’t even seem surprised. They were used to coming here and having doors open on their own to let them in (as well as very good tips).

My Dear brought up his news over dessert, in Bookshop’s living room on the first floor. Angel was so enthusiastic he almost forgot to finish his third mochi ice cream.

“A week in the countryside? What a _lovely_ idea!”

“Not lovely. _Clever_. There’s the beach and a forest not far for morning strolls, and you could visit Tracy and her stupid husband during the day.”

“And what will you do? I assume you won’t be visiting with me?”

“I’d rather eat my own foot than visit _Shadwell_. Nah, got a cottage, garden needs some working on.”

Angel wiggled in delight. “Oh! A cottage! That is just perfect! When can we go?”

“I was thinking tomorrow, unless you’ve got some unfinished business?”

“Not really. Tomorrow sounds splendid. I have to prepare my luggage! I will need _books_!” exclaimed Angel, putting his spoon down and heading down the stairs excitedly.

My Dear frowned, calling after him. “Not too many! Angel, the Bentley’s boot isn’t that big. Angel? _Aziraphale_ , are you even listening to me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be half-Bentley, half-Aziraphale's pov^^  
> It will be fun to write.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, we will get some Bentley's POV next chapter.  
> Misunderstandings guaranteed^^  
> Everything will end WELL don't worry!


End file.
